Hymn of the Hearthkeeper
by SpookedRabbits
Summary: Sylaise sits by her hearth. Sylaise roams the forests. She trusts; she is betrayed. She is imprisoned; she escapes. Sylaise as she steps from one world to another. Collection of one shots and loosely connected storylines.


I am hoping to use this as an exploration of Sylaise and other gods. Sylaise fascinates me; usually the domestic goddesses are quite overlooked in favour of their more martial counterparts. Unfortunately since there are no canonical stories about her, no interaction with the character and she is essentially a warm body to pad out the pantheon I am going to have to use my lady thinky brain and make stuff up. It makes me _sick_ , I tell you!

Each chapter will be standalone...or possibly tie into previous events. Pairings vary. There may be some dark/controversial themes later on.

This is also my first foray into writing anything of length in this tense, so I apologise if the narrative gets loopy! Also, apologies for errors, this is unbeta'd as per usual.

Dragon Age is not mine, I earn no money from this work.

The song referenced below makes me think of Fen'Harel/Solas every time I hear it.

* * *

 _Some crippling dream,_

 _I know whose fault it is; I know it isn't me._

 _The wolf is free,_

 _I want to chase him down and drown him in the sea._

 _-The Wolf is Free_ , Lily and Madeleine

* * *

Sylaise creeps out of the forest when she is certain Anaris and Andruil have fallen into their respective slumbers. She was certain ten minutes ago, but she thought she would wait to make sure.

Fen'Harel chortles when he sees her. He wears a handful of feathers, intricate body paint, twelve feet of rope and nothing else. Andruil has bound him so only the tips of his toes brush the ground and his hands are folded across his chest, palms pressed flat.

"You are an uncommon sight in these parts, fair Sylaise," he says in greeting. "Come to deliver some sweetbuns to the duellists?"

She approaches him slowly, carefully. She stops a few feet back, well outside his reach. He grins lewdly, and her traitorous face flushes. "I heard Andruil had finally snared you."

"And you gallantly slithered from the shadows to free me."

"I came to ensure she didn't scatter your limbs throughout the forest," the Hearthkeeper responds icily. Fen'Harel's smirk threatens to split his head in two.

"Oh, you are a dear little peacekeeper," he sighs. "You needn't have feared. Her scheme involved no dismemberment; she was really only interested in one of my appendages."

"The least interesting of them all, I'm sure," Sylaise sniffs. It does not shut him up, as she hopes.

"Oh ho, so she flashes a little tooth! Like a rabbit, trying to snarl."

Unable to think of a response witty enough to throw back, so she decides she is not deigning him with an answer. She instead concentrates on her sister and Anaris, still sprawling out where they had tumbled after their duel abruptly ended. She does have to – grudgingly – give Fen'Harel his due. He was quick-witted to turn such a situation to his favour.

She circles around Andruil first. Her sister is battleworn and exhausted but her wound is clean, already closing up. Sylaise makes a mental note to ask June if he can find a solution to that little weakness in her armor.

Sylaise adjusts her sister slightly to make her more comfortable – she fell upon her bow when the healing sleep took over, so Sylaise carefully tugs it free but keeps it within reach.

She has done all she can really do. As much as she would like to spirit Andruil back to the home-tree, her sister would see it as craven to abandon the battleground. Not to mention she sincerely did not want to explain to her sister how she, Sylaise, came to be in the midst of the forest at such a late hour.

Andruil is settled now, and really Sylaise should depart. Fen'Harel has incurred the wrath of Andruil. Anaris is her enemy. Anathema to the People and to herself.

Anaris is the god of…what? The Hearthkeeper struggles to recall. Was it malice? Or perhaps plague. Perhaps it was rage, he always seems so –

"Pain, twitchy little Sylaise," Fen'Harel hisses out. She glances at him; his eyes bore into her, but not unkindly. "The patron of pain lies before you." She wonders how he remembers.

Sylaise has never really seen a Forgotten One up close before. Not prone and unresponsive, so easy to observe. And – her eyes flicker to the bristling golden shaft protruding from his back – he was injured. Healers were dutybound to assist, even if the duty was occasionally a little…distasteful.

She kneels beside Anaris, ignoring Fen'Harel's noise of interest. She studies him. Up close and in the depths of healing slumber, he does not look like an enemy. The cold light in his eyes is hidden behind delicate eyelids, his long lashes sweeping his cheek. His lips are surprisingly lush and delicately shaped like a bow. They are curiously coloured, as pure cream from fresh milk - the only warm colour on his body.

Anaris has a stony beauty to him, not verdant and vibrant like her own family. His hair is shadow, his jaw is granite, and his brow is flint. Sylaise has perceived the splendour in stone before. How intricate and layered it can be; how it hides life.

She sees all this in Anaris, though bubbling guilt scolds her for even looking. Her breath catches in her throat.

He is very beautiful. And very forbidden.

"Going to finish him off while he is lost to this world?" Fen'Harel calls softly. She glances up at him. The dying fire has cast him in shadow, but she can see his eyes gleaming molten gold. Fen'Harel adds, "You'd be doing us all a favour. Including him."

"I'm sure Anaris would disagree," Sylaise huffs. It makes Fen'Harel chuckle richly and she knows he was not serious.

blocking out the Dread Wolf is hard but she manages. He was always mocking her, always distracting her from her work. Andruil liked him immensely…when she didn't hated him intensely. Falon'Din and Dirthamen seemed to share a sort of mischievous bond with him, June tolerated him in a sort of benevolent fashion and as for the All-Father and All-Mother…

She slips her arms around Anaris' middle – his warmth shocks her. She had never thought on it, but if previously asked she would have guessed The Forgotten Ones to be chilly. Anaris is almost as warm as she herself, and gracious Mythal that almost makes it _worse_. Fen'Harel has certainly noticed her freshly pinked cheeks. He cackles.

Sylaise rolls Anaris onto his side and sets herself to work. Despite her loss of vitae and experiencing what must have been an immeasurable amount of pain, Andruil has stuck him very well. The arrow missed his heart, if Anaris even had a heart, but had rearranged his guts in a way that would take a very long time to sleep off. If he ever woke from such an injury. There was no exit wound so she would only have to work from one point.

A quick glance at her sister. Andruil looks endearingly serene in sleep. By the look of it she had shot Anaris with one of her heavy broadhead arrows. For anyone else it would be a death sentence, the bladed arrowhead causing as much damage on its way out as it had on the way in.

It is no obstacle for Sylaise.

Sylaise runs her fingers over the shaft, the fletching, admiring its craftsmanship. June was so very clever. He taught her so much about his work, insisting she stay back for hours so they could learn together.

"Don't tear that out, Sylaise," Fen'Harel warns, and it is so _stupid_ of him she is rendered speechless. Yes, tell the healer how to do her job, she has temporarily forgotten the very role she is venerate for. There is a tremble of concern in his voice however much he tries to hide it, and it resonates into sympathy in her heart.

Perhaps Fen'Harel thinks she truly will finish Anaris? Leave him to bleed out on the forest floor. It was ludicrous to her. Even if she held such hatred in her heart towards The Forgotten Ones, doing so would be against her very Way of life. "I'm not going to hurt him," Sylaise patiently explains, positioning her fingers at the base of the entrance wound. "I'm going to fix him."

"How?" Fen'Harel demands, his interest piqued.

She ignores him, lost once again in the arrow before her. Together, she and June would frequently come up with some ingenious ideas, but one thing her brother had never been able to achieve was proofing his creations against her fire.

"How far have you travelled, Fen'Harel?" she asks suddenly. He looks momentarily surprised, like it was the last thing he expects to be asked. "I have not travelled much." At all, to be correct. "Andruil was the wanderer when we were much younger." She does not know why she is saying this. Fen'harel had been there after all.

At a thought, fire blossoms in her free cupped hand. It flickers prettily; it always reminds her of a field of daffodils tousled by summer wind. It's an odd thought, and she has never told anyone what she thinks. "I've read a lot, though," she continues, pressing the flames to the feathered fletching. The flames course down in an instant, reducing it to fine powder and dusting her readily waiting hand; when it burns into Anaris's body, she draws out the ash and broadhead with a lick of magic. It is a smooth, natural motion and is over in a second, but she feels Fen'Harel observing with keen interest.

"There are places where the trees won't thrive until the forest burns," she says, pressing her fingers against the wound. Free of the arrow, ichor wells sluggishly to paint her fingers a curious shade. It is unnatural to her trained eye and it turns her veteran stomach. She had performed the manoeuvre perfectly, though – not a single scorch mark on his body. "The trees wait for the heat, wait for the fire, and they won't spread their seed until they've felt the flames. Their bodies blacken but it swells their sap." Her fire changes subtly, takes on a buttery glow. "When the fires don't come, the land withers. When they return, the land blooms."

"What are you doing now?" Fen'Harel asks eagerly, twisting as much as he can against his bonds. "I can't see properly – come closer so I can see."

"Fen'Harel, I know you can see from there," she says irritably. The fire flares like a tiny star in her curled fingers. She presses the star into the wound, where it burns with a playful quality. Anaris's skin does not blacken or curl. It knits and closes, moving languidly to seal the breach in his body.

Fen'Harel leans in curiously. Sylaise lets her flames linger for a second, and then snaps them out with a flick of her hand. The wound is closed, but a mark is left, pale gold and seven pointed.

"He will wonder about that," Fen'Harel helpfully points out.

Sylaise meets Fen'Harel's eyes. They are bright, keen and giving her their full attention. Fen'Harel never really pays her much heed, so to be the subject now of his burning dark stare is a little satisfying. Unnerving too.

"Hopefully by the time he wakes up it will be gone," she responds. "It's just some residue. Nothing harmful."

"He will know you were here." Sylaise cringes. She _really_ hopes it will fade.

"Plenty of time for worry later on," she mutters, which is not really an answer. She leans forward in the pretence of examining Anaris and accidentally…starts to really examine Anaris.

His skin is unlike anything she has seen before. So unlike her own, all in monochrome, silvery-grey to shadowy charcoal. Accents of cold white here and there, running in beautiful patterns across his skin. The designs are intricate and seem deeply set, like they are a permanent feature in his flesh. Even if she practiced for a thousand years, Sylaise doubts her calligraphy could ever match this, and she realises she is tracing fine strokes on his chest.

The designs there run under a smattering of dusk-dark hair, and her fingers make his skin prickle, react to her touch. His breathing deepens and she is leaning too close, her breath stirring silken strands, her fingers trailing patterns over his lean stomach and -

"Look at you," Fen'Harel purrs, straining against the ropes. Sylaise snatches her hands away, her cheeks burning. "Innocent little Sylaise, devouring poor defenceless Anaris with her eyes…"

Sylaise swallows hard and tries to avoid The Dread Wolf's gaze. "If you call me innocent again, Fen'Harel, I will take advantage of _your_ particular state and give you a good slap – "

"Hmmmm?"

" – Across your _face_. You wicked creature." She stands and takes her time straightening her gown. She can feel Fen'Harel openly observing her and it annoys her a little.

"I believe thanks is in order," Fen'Harel comments, swinging idly from his bindings. Sylaise feels a momentary flash of pride. She had designed and woven the rope Andruil had used to bind Fen'Harel to the great, gnarled oak tree. She had made it as a gift for her sister and it contained a few extra components she did not dare to teach The People how to use. Fen'Harel would not free himself easily.

"I hope you don't think I owe you thanks," answered Sylaise, glancing over her shoulder warily. Just in case it was another ruse of his. "I did nothing for you and you've done nothing for me."

Fen'Harel makes a small, mockingly disappointed noise and shakes his head in that _infuriatingly_ superior way of his. "My eyes are not deceived by darkness, sweet Sylaise."

"I should hope not, what with you usually having six of them." The words fly out before she can master herself, and Sylaise fights the urge to hide her face as Fen'Harel's laughter booms over the clearing.

"You prying little thing, have you been watching my skinchanging?" he teases. Sylaise does cover her face now. "There there, lamb, I am only jesting." His voice is too soothing, but Sylaise peeps out between her fingers anyway. "I am, in fact, referring to you flinging mighty Andruil's bow back within her reach while Anaris was…preoccupied." Andruil had been too focused on Anaris to notice exactly how her bow had come to land by her side. Thankfully her quiver had been within Andruil's reach or she may have questioned a fortuitous rain of arrows.

"Wh- What I…No, that – that wasn't for your benefit, Fen'Harel!" Sylaise shouts, then winces. She glances around the darkened woods nervously. If the other Forgotten Ones were prowling about they would have certainly heard. She lowers her voice. "I would not have left Andruil to the non-existent mercy of our enemy." She thinks Fen'Harel looks a little disappointed at her choice of description, but perhaps she is just imagining it.

"The enemy you looked ready to mount just now?" Fen'Harel mocks, and she huffs for lack of a better response. She marches over to her poor sister. Andruil's wound has closed up entirely now, but Sylaise rummages in her little bag for a poultice anyway. It would dry quite nicely, stick for a good while and probably fall off before her sister woke. Better safe than sorry.

Sylaise works on her sister for as long as she dares, and stands slowly. Fen'Harel is so obviously pretending to not watch she knows he wants her attention for some reason.

She draws in a deep breath, of fresh forest air and dying campfire smoke. She hates, _hates_ asking Fen'Harel for anything because he has always taunted her.

An imp of mischief stirs as she once again watches over her sister and her enemy, encouraged by her animosity. Before she can talk herself out of it, before she even really registers what she is doing, she hoists Anaris under his armpits and drags him over to Andruil. Sylaise dumps him unceremoniously alongside her sister and begins to carefully rearrange their limbs.

She can hear Fen'Harel start to giggle.

" _No_ , Sylaise…"

Andruil is rolled onto her side; Sylaise tilts her chin up ever so slightly.

"You can't do this…"

Anaris' right arm comes over to rest on Andruil's waist. Sylaise tucks his fingers into a half-curled fist.

"Sylaise, _please_ …let me go, let me _help_ …"

She spends the next few minutes tweaking their position, ensuring they will both be comfortable for their restorative slumber while also maximising their awakening surprise. All the while, Fen'Harel wheedles and cackles.

"Sylaise, I must help. You are doing it wrong."

"Loosen Anaris' top shirt buttons, just the top ones. Do it. Do it!" She acquiesces to this, which pleases the Wolf immensely.

"Sylaise, I will fetch you white honey from the deepest part of the woods if you let me help right now."

"You like plants, yes? I could dive into Wight Lake for you and fetch maidenlock? It only grows in the murkiest parts. You just have to let me go."

"Take all of Andruil's small clothes and throw them in the river. I will never ask anything of you again if you do this one little thing. Also, let me go."

Finally, she finishes. It is a chaste embrace between Andruil and Anaris, more a friendly cuddle than a passionate clasp. But it will be enough.

She is only sorry she will not get to see those first, glorious moments of consciousness. Most of her mind is shouting quite loudly to part them immediately and set them at opposite ends of the clearing. She is certain if she backs down now Fen'Harel will never let her forget it.

The Dread Wolf is positively kicking in the rope now, delighted at this turn of events. Sylaise resists the urge to roll her eyes. She is quite prepared to leave him there – he would probably howl the forest to pieces if she tried to take him away before the two combatants woke up anyway.

A thought occurs to her, and she glances uneasily at the cuddling couple.

Fen'Harel sees her glance, and smiles in a surprisingly friendly manner. _Suspicious_. "Don't fret. I won't breathe a word of your cheeky little prank. They will fall over themselves to believe it was me." He wants the credit. She's happy to give it, but…

"That would be a fine joke," Sylaise agrees, her tone utterly saccharine. "Fit to do the legend of The Trickster credit. How, they will ask each other, did he manage to pull that off while tied to a tree? I imagine they won't ponder for long with a convenient vent for their frustration nearby."

"You," Fen'Harel says after a moment's pause, "Have a very sharp tongue cushioned in your plush little mouth." He once again strains against his bonds. "Don't tell me that pouty face you pulled just now was for my welfare." Though she knows he is only jesting, her face heats up all the same.

" _No_ , Fen'Harel." She ignores his snickering. "I was wondering if…you could…please not tell them it was me who restored Anaris."

He straightens, interest written across his face. "Oh? And why would I do that?"

She fights against the compulsion to grit her teeth. "Because I…I am asking it of you."

She considers offering him freedom to sweeten her request. But Fen'Harel is already shrugging, nodding.

"Your secrets are safe with me." He grins. "You toddle on home; I shall watch over them until they wake at dawn. It would be a shame if some foul-tempered creature came along and undid all your fine work."

Unexpectedly, her heart warms towards him. He does not have to watch over them, and she suspects it is in part a wish to see their reaction when they wake, but…

He offers to do so anyway. It is an easy selflessness she has not seen before.

She makes her decision, snaps her fingers, and the sound cracks like a whip. The rope binding him shivers and jumps away from Fen'Harel's body, coiling lovingly around Sylaise' outstretched arm.

A moment passes and the Dread Wolf is free once again. Sylaise wonders if she will regret it.

Fen'Harel looks surprised, then a little impressed. He stretches languidly and Sylaise tries not to stare. The rope had stolen some of his presence, some of his animalistic charisma. It is back full force now, in every peeping canine and sinewy muscle.

"You saved me from a fate worse than death and the beating of a lifetime," Fen'Harel says thoughtfully. "I in turn save you from our kin's interrogation and your _innocent_ reputation being sullied. I feel we are evenly matched once again."

The slap echoes through the clearing. Her small hand leaves a distinct imprint on his turned cheek.

"Now we are even, Trickster," she breathes. Oh yes, that slap was a mistake. His mouth works furiously, eyes glittering with some yet unidentified emotion. Nothing healthy for her that much was certain. "Just this once my advice will come freely for you, since - since I had such fun tonight." She hopes her wording distracts him momentarily from whatever sinister revenge he is planning. Part of her wants to apologise for her rash action. She pushes that part down deep. "You do yourself a disservice believing I am innocent. You may consider my dominion weak but not all wars and miracles take place in the wilds, or on the battlefield."

"How would you know of this, little Sylaise?" he uses her name like a weapon and she flinches from his voice. "Your boundary is your garden fence and you have not ventured beyond that for years." She steps back; Fen'Harel steps forward. "The People throw festivals in your honour, women invoke your name as their babes slide into this world, and each fire kindled and extinguished is praise unto gentle Hearthkeeper."

Her heel hits the edge of the firepit and Fen'Harel is so close his knee is nudging between her legs. Her breathing is erratic, uncontrollable. "But you huddle by your hearth and sing like a lark. You embroider, and bake and paint and write poetry of places you've never been. You live through books because you are terrified of taking a _step_ beyond your sanctuary!"

He presses into her now and she feels every part of him, hot and lean. Her palms slam against his chest and she thinks she is pushing him away – instead her nails sink deep into his skin, drags him even closer. His colours will rub off onto her dress but she does not care. Sylaise exhales sharply; her breath wilts his skin like bark in a firestorm. His heart beats like a drum; her pulse thrums with it.

"My boundary is the last fire at the edge of the world, Fen'Harel," Sylaise growls, drawing out every syllable of his name. "My eyes are everywhere there is heat. Every desire whispered to the hearth comes to me. Torches and witchfire, in deep dungeons and upon mountaintops are my subjects. When children laugh and play around the midsummer bonfires, I hear them. I read every letter, gaze at each portrait, anything that is burned. The People argue, they weep and laugh and share company and make love in their homes, you thoughtless, lonely little pup and _that_ is where their lives truly exist. Anywhere they call home I am queen, and that is why _you_ should fear _me_ , Fen'Harel." Ichor blossoms and sizzles under her fingers. He makes a tiny, pure noise.

Sylaise returns to herself; she extracts her nails and his wounds seal over in an instant. She should not be surprised at his capacity for healing, but she is all the same.

He smiles. It is not a nice smile. "Brave Sylaise," he mocks. "Such a staunch defender of her title. Your influence is great, I will permit that." Anger flares again inside her but she quells it. "But is living through The People any different to living through a book?"

His hands slide down the inside of her wrists, holding, thumbs pressing delicately into her skin. "You may see the world from your perch but you do not experience it. You do not appreciate why The People leave their families, their fireside, if they love them so dearly." His voice purrs, but it may as well have been a sawblade on her nerves. She wonders, dizzily, how Fen'Harel perceives so much. "You are revered, powerful, but you do not _really_ fathom the reason behind it."

His cheek presses softly against her own; his lips brush her ear, sending unfamiliar tingles down her spine. "Only when you are lost, alone in the world and uncertain if you will ever return, will you know what it truly means to have a home."

"Even if I am so callow, as you say," she whispers, and is aware that he has never actually said she is callow, but his voice is echoing in her head and digging up old doubts, creating new ones, "I am still truer to my purpose than you ever will be to yours." This is definitely the wrong thing to say.

His smile is downright predatory. "Let's compare, shall we?"

Her nerve shatters. In an instant she shoves him away and steps backwards into the fire. It flares up in welcome, protecting its mistress from The Dread Wolf's touch.

Fen'Harel is laughing, allowing her to leave.

She steps out of her own grand hearth a second later, his cackling just a memory and his hands a ghost on her skin. She is miles away from him but she can still feel his presence as surely as though he were next to her.

* * *

The following night, Sylaise dreams of skin like a midwinter night, swirled with the light of a gleaming full moon. She can feel taut muscles at play as her hands drag down his back, feel them shivering under her touch. She dreams of running her fingers through thick black hair, of kissing creamy, swollen lips until they part and pant with heady desperation.

In the dream her lips caress a smooth carven face, along a straight nose, high cheekbones, fluttering eyes. She dreams of a man seeking warmth, affection, anything to chase back the darkness. Hold agony at bay for a moment. His head tilts back wondrously when he finally pushes inside her, neck bare and flawless.

His pleasured tremor shakes her dream apart.

She wakes cursing the Dread Wolf.

* * *

Thoughts? Criticism? Suggestions? Impotent rage?


End file.
